


Pretentions

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: A Few Bumps and Bruises, Assumed personas, Gen, Renaissance masterpieces, british nobility, newport
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Peter and Neal go undercover as a couple. Peter wants to recover stolen artwork. However, Neal is having the time of his life tweaking his handler’s nerves because payback is so sweet!
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 13
Kudos: 86





	1. A Lost Weekend

Peter was sitting in his office late Friday afternoon when the call came through greenlighting his proposed venture. The next step was corralling his CI into being a complicit accomplice in the daring ruse. Neal sashayed into Peter’s inner sanctum after his handler’s rather imperious summons and raised his eyebrows in question. “What’s up, Doc?” he quipped flippantly.

“Whatcha doin’ tomorrow, Buddy?” Peter asked his own question.

Suddenly, the young con artist looked leery. “Just spill it, Peter. Exactly what am I being conscripted for this weekend? Is working on Saturdays and Sundays even valid according to my work/release agreement?”

“As a convicted and now paroled felon, you are at my beck and call 24/7,” Peter grinned with a bit of evilness in his smile.

“Sometimes, Peter, I don’t really like you,” Neal claimed.

“Would you like me better if I was offering to take you on a little field trip out of state?” Peter teased.

Now Neal perked up a bit. “Which state, exactly?”

“Rhode Island,” was the terse answer he received.

“Small state,” Neal kept it brief as well.

“Maybe small in actual land mass, but big on pretention, if we’re talking about Newport,” was the less than enlightening response.

Neal cocked his head and looked at his handler quizzically. “So, are you planning to visit all those early twentieth century ostentatious mansions built by the rich and famous with names like Vanderbilt and Astor? I really don’t see that as being your thing, Peter.”

“It’s all part of an undercover op, so I can suck it up for one weekend,” Peter answered.

“Explain!” Neal demanded.

Peter knew he had piqued his CI’s curiosity, so he began laying it out, piece by piece, starting with the background information. He had to paint the proper picture to get his partner on board, especially when Neal’s role took shape on the canvas.

“There is a gentleman living the life of Riley right in the heart of the historic 10-mile stretch of peninsula that is home to the most expensive and grandiose displays of decadent luxury in the United States. His name is Sir Reginald Maxwell Ambrose-Houghton, and he is all about pedigree and appearance and unfettered wealth. He claims to be a member of the English peerage—something like 42nd in line to the throne. And while he’s awaiting his never going to happen moment in the sun, he ‘slaves’ away as a diplomatic emissary at the British consulate whenever he deigns to visit Washington DC.”

Neal looked far from impressed. “Why is it that the Brits like to use hyphens in their names? That’s something I never understood. It just makes signing checks more tedious than necessary, and you never saw a famous painter scribbling a double-header moniker in the lower right corner of his work.”

“Arrogant pretention, I guess,” Peter sighed. “To get on with my story, Sir Reggie is a multitasker. Besides dabbling in politics, he also likes to dabble in artwork, and we think his wealth has enabled him to facilitate the removal of some old masterpieces from various Eastern Seaboard museums. He pays some flunky to paint a passable copy of a Renaissance canvas and then he pays another lackey to make the swap. I’m sure many palms were greased along the way so it goes unnoticed for quite a while, but, hey, it’s only money to our knighted art hoarder."

“Let me guess,” Neal mused. “This is all unsubstantiated rumor so you can’t legally get a warrant to search his little 65,000+ square foot ‘cottage’ by the sea. But you want your resident sneak thief to do the dirty work for you by breaking in and snooping around.”

“My, my—that would be very gauche,” Peter looked horrified. “No, my good man, you and I are actually going to walk in together to look around because we have been invited for the weekend.”

Now Neal was beginning to get the lay of the land. “So, this little lost weekend probably entails dressing up in costume and getting in character, doesn’t it? Who are we going to be?”

Peter grinned. “I’m going to be Mr. Peter Rhymes, a wealthy, although untitled, private entrepreneur who also likes to utilize my wealth in less than pedestrian ways. I inherited my initial fortune but have been clever enough, by whatever means available to me, to triple it. Ergo, I have the dough but not the station in life to which I aspire. I need the proper trappings to gain the envious but respectful attention of those around me, and maybe I’m pondering the possibility of relocating to Reggie’s neck of the woods.”

“You sound like a real egocentric pill,” Neal had to get in that verbal putdown. It’s the little things in life that make him happy.

“Whatever,” Peter waves his hand. “To sum it up, I used my very persuasive powers to wangle an invitation to Ambrose-Houghton’s house this weekend to impose upon him to pave the way for me into the upper echelons of what high-society looks like in Newport.”

Neal grins. “In other words, somebody in the FBI knew somebody who would vouch for you so you could get a foot in the door. Hopefully, you’ll get a firsthand look at his art collection while discussing real estate values on Belleview Avenue **.** Does that about cover it?”

“Diana’s father is a diplomat and he was very helpful,” Peter confessed.

“So, what’s my part?” Neal asked, finally curious and 95% convinced he was going to be happy doing whatever he was going to be doing. That percentage plummeted precipitously when Peter fleshed out Neal’s pseudo-persona.

“You are going to be my date,” the FBI agent smiled giddily.

Neal frowned. “You know, Peter, usually the dates I escort around the town have a little less five o’clock shadow.”

“Oh, c’mon, Neal,” Peter wheedled. “Be a little more broadminded and think out of the box. I’ve got your character all fleshed out. Your name is Jeffrey Pritchard, my _very_ close and _very_ adorable friend, and we’re inseparable and go everywhere together. You’ll fit right in because Ambrose-Houghton has a live in acquaintance, too. His name is Vincent something or other, and from the selfies he posts on social media, he’s young and cute like you.”

Neal continued to frown. “So, I’m supposed to be your arm candy who sits quietly and looks pretty until you distract Sir Reggie so I can check out his etchings to see if they’re real?”

Peter shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

“I’ve never been somebody’s boy toy,” Neal shakes his head in amazement. “That’s definitely not listed in my job description in the CI handbook.”

“Protocols, regulations, guidelines,” Peter intones solemnly—“Buddy, you’ve never met a rule that you didn’t feel compelled to break.”

When Neal still continues to look stubborn, Peter is not above begging. “Neal, I can’t do this without you. I don’t have the eye to recognize a real masterpiece with just a cursory glance. That’s your bailiwick and you’re the best and I really need you.”

“Oh, stop groveling, Peter,” Neal finally relents. “However, if I’m supposed to be your young and lusty paramour, you’d better be nice to me and at least try to look like you’re pandering to my every whim to keep me happy.”

“I guess I can pull that off,” Peter says with a bit of fear in his tone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter tools by Riverside Drive in a spiffy Mercedes convertible late the next morning. Neal comes out of the front door in tight white jeans that look sprayed onto his lower body and leave little to the imagination regarding his finer assets. A pastel blue chambray shirt and a navy sweater tied across his shoulders complete the outfit. “You look like you just stepped out of a J. Crew catalogue,” Peter remarks, “and you’re not wearing any socks inside those tasseled loafers.”

Neal frowns as he takes in Peter’s less than chic outfit. “And you look like L.L. Bean decked you out for hiking in the Maine woods,” he mocks.

“Elizabeth helped me pick it out,” Peter challenges. “It’s supposed to look like I’m slumming, wealthy casual suburbanite-style.”

“If you say so,” Neal snickers.

The ride takes a few hours while handler and CI go over their back stories until each man feels comfortable. When they finally pull up to the circular driveway at an enormous Tudor mansion set among a lush green expanse of lawn, Peter is confident they can pull it off.

They are met by an actual liveried butler with a tony British accent who assures them that their luggage will be taken up to their room. He then escorts them into the “Great Hall” where Sir Reginald awaits. The homeowner is a rather rotund older man with a florid complexion, making Neal wonder exactly where his normal systolic blood pressure hovers on a day-to-day basis. Sitting petulantly in a corner near the three-story high windows is a younger chap with a struggling soul patch on his chin and a huge diamond stud in an ear lobe. He actually rolls his eyes when Sir Reggie bids him to stand up when the introductions are made. Young Vincent is definitely not a happy camper.

Sir Reginald is a gregarious host and insists on giving his guests the grand tour of his “humble” home. Reggie’s young and pouting lover continues to be snippy with an attitude, and finally decides to make himself scarce during the pilgrimage from floor to floor in this palatial throwback to another era. The remaining trio traipse through acres of floor space, and Neal discovers that there is an actual billiard room as well as a conservatory, making him feel as if he’s trapped in a game of “Clue.”

Finally, Peter and Neal are rewarded for their patience when the Englishman escorts them into the “Grand Salon,” as he calls it. It is a massive dark-paneled room soaring upwards to the floors above. At one end is an elegant sweetheart staircase that trails down to the marble floor with gracious charm. The walls of this cavernous cathedral-like space are adorned, end-to-end, with oil paintings in gold Baroque frames. It is now time for Neal/Jeffrey to go to work. He oohs and aahs, with just the right amount of star-struck awe as he allows his hands to flutter delicately while moving in for a closer look.

“These are just so magnificent!” Peter’s undercover CI gushes as he babbles on about other British painters like Thomas Gainsborough, William Blake, and Sir Joshua Reynolds. “Your distinguished family must have been amassing these treasures for eons.”

“Well, Jeffrey, perhaps a few have been in our dynastic clan for some years, but I’m proud to say that I am the one with the thirst to expand the collection,” Reggie bragged as he preened and pirouetted around to point out various masterpieces that Neal had already identified as the real deal. Unfortunately, they weren’t any of the ones that had been recently swapped out in any East Coast museums.

“Well, Sir, you have a discerning eye,” Neal smiles charmingly. “Peter is a philistine when it comes to art. I practically have to drag him to museums, kicking and screaming, if they don’t have any dinosaur bones in them.”

The pompous chubby gentleman sighs dramatically. “I wish Vincent shared your enthusiasm for great art, but what can you do with one so young and so reticent to expand his horizons?”

“I’m sure Vincent has other talents that you find enticing,” Neal says with a wink.

“Perhaps,” Reggie simpers. “But let’s talk about you, my boy. What kind of educational background and cultural grooming have provided you with such astute enlightenment?”

“Oh, Jeffrey’s self-taught,” Peter quickly chimes in. “He reads a lot.”

“Sweetheart, I had a life before I met you,” Neal objects. “Actually, I managed to obtain several degrees from some very prestigious institutions.”

Of course, Peter knew that was all a lie. Neal had never put in his time within any ivied walls of higher education. He had simply forged those bogus academic credentials. Now an undercover handler struggled to come up with his own zinger. “I’m well aware that you were once a very busy boy, Jeffrey. I suspect you were flitting all over the world doing God knows what. That’s why I tenaciously pursued you until I managed to clip your wings and take you out of circulation.”

Sir Reginald was intrigued. “Have the two of you been together long?”

“Oh, it seems like we’ve known each other forever,” Neal drawls as he places an arm around Peter’s shoulders and squeezes, perhaps a bit tighter than necessary.

“Yeah, like a decade—a very long decade,” Peter says with his jaw set.

“I think I should clarify that statement,” Neal says annoyingly. “Although we became acquainted ten years ago, I couldn’t let him think I was easy. I made him chase me for years so that when I finally let him catch me he would appreciate what he had.”

“That sounds so romantically adorable,” Sir Reginald sighed.

“Yeah—real adorable,” Peter mumbled. “I can think of a lot of other adjectives I could use to describe Jeffrey and his antics.”

The Englishman seemed oblivious to the tense interplay between his guests. He suggested a spot of tea and then perhaps a trip out to the stables to see his fine horseflesh. That suggestion made Peter straighten up with anticipation. It had been a long time since he had been up in the saddle and galloping along the riding trails in Upstate New York. Neal, however, was not quite as enthusiastic.

“If it doesn’t offend you, Sir Reginald, I believe I’d like to beg off. I prefer that my horses reside under the hood of a very fast car.”

“Of course, that suggestion was quite presumptuous of me,” the old man apologized. “Perhaps you’d like to meander around the estate. You may find Vincent down by the tennis courts or the greenhouse, and the two of you can become better acquainted.”

“Perhaps I shall,” Neal smiled his toothy grin.


	2. A Search and Plan B

Neal didn’t deign to meander anywhere outside of the baronial castle-like premises. As soon as Peter and Sir Reggie left by the front door talking equestrian stuff, Neal started his search. Thanks to the earlier tour, he knew that what he was looking for was probably on the main floor. All the upstairs rooms were bedrooms, most with cozy sitting areas and adjoining ensuites, and since Newport was situated seaside, the excavation of a basement was an impossibility.

Neal, a very proficient cat burglar back in the day, easily dodged the occasional servant as he slid from chamber to chamber. Searching this place was going to be a marathon rather than a sprint, but he was going to give it his best shot. After twenty minutes of reconnoitering without success, Neal opted to look in less likely places. Some people were known to be oddly quirky, even pompous aristocrats. Just look how the tabloids lampooned the monarchy. The journalist yellow press relished exploiting its foibles and eccentricities because it sold a lot of papers in the supermarket checkout line. So, the search was now expanded to the kitchen and the adjacent pantry.

Perhaps the choice to explore the culinary quarters was a good one because just off the main cavernous room with black and white tiles on the expansive floor and an eight-burner gas stove in the center of it all, Neal was intrigued to find a curious anomaly. A short, narrow passageway opened into a small alcove housing what appeared to be an ancient free-standing Wells Fargo safe complete with a brass numbered dial and a sturdy unlocking arm. The huge relic stood six feet tall and looked intriguing. Neal was about to start fiddling with it to get a feel for the movement of the tumblers when someone behind him demanded to know, “What are you doing?”

Neal turned nonchalantly with a smile pasted on his face to find Vincent staring at him. “Hey there, Vincent,” he said amiably.

“I asked what you were doing in here,” Reggie’s young man asked again with his hands on his hips.

Neal shrugged and looked a bit embarrassed. “If you must know, I was hungry and I thought I might find a cookie or something to munch on here in the butler’s pantry. Sir Reginald said that dinner was going to be served at 8 pm tonight and I didn’t know if I could hold out that long. Peter and I didn’t stop for lunch on the way up here, and those little cucumber finger sandwiches at teatime just didn’t cut it for me. Imagine my surprise when I happened to find something that looks like a prop from some old Western movie.”

“And you thought you might find Oreos or Fig Newtons in the silver vault?” Vincent asked mockingly.

Neal’s eyes widened. “Is that what this ginormous thing is? You guys actually lock up the cutlery?” the con man managed to look shocked and a bit bewildered.

“There’s engraved trays and tea pots and other ridiculously heavy stuff in there, too,” Vincent shrugged. “Sometimes, Reggie even stashes new paintings inside until he can get them reframed.”

“Wow—the lives of the rich and famous are above my paygrade,” Neal chuckled. “Now, please, please tell me about other treasures, like maybe chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.”

Vincent’s suspicion and initial hostility seemed to melt as he gazed at Neal’s hopeful expression. He led Neal back into the kitchen, indicated a tall stool at the marble island, then rummaged in a cabinet before plunking down a tin of Scottish shortbread butter cookies. “Not quite Keebler quality munchies, but that’s about it for a snack,” he shrugged. “Actually Reginald calls them biscuits, and he imports them from some fancy emporium in London.”

Neal smiled in appreciation. “C’mon, Vincent, join me. Nobody likes to eat alone even if it’s just ‘biscuits’ on the menu.

Vincent was completely disarmed by Neal’s innocent patter and charisma. He took a carton of milk out of the humungous refrigerator and poured two glasses before pulling up another stool and actually snagging a cookie for himself. “It’s kinda nice being able to talk to another young American. It gets tedious being around stuffy old farts with their highbrow English accents,” he was willing to admit.

Neal continued to smile as he spread his arms expansively. “Well, being with Sir Reginald obviously has other perks. You get to live in a friggin’ castle, for starters, and I’ll bet he even gives you a very generous allowance, too.”

Vincent frowned and refused to meet Neal’s eyes. “Let’s call it what it is—I’m a gay gigolo enduring the fawning and pawing of a disgusting old man only partially in the closet. I do it for money, not fame, or glory, or devotion. It’s probably exactly what you’re doing, as well.”

Now Neal looked serious. “Peter is my partner, and it’s not like that with us. Although, I have to say he’s a bit stingy with money. My allowance for the entire month is only $700. But leaving is definitely not an option for me.”

Vincent actually laughed. “Oh, please don’t try and sell your situation as true love. That’s a unicorn—a fantasy that doesn’t really exist. If you think otherwise, then you haven’t been at it long enough.”

“If you’re that unhappy, then why don’t you leave?” Neal asked softly. “Money might be nice, but in the long run, finding the right person trumps everything.”

“And do what, exactly?” Vincent said bitterly. “I’m not educated or particularly ambitious, and, at first, this seemed like the perfect gig with a lot of creature comforts. It’s not like I have to sexually perform as if I’m madly in love with the old goat. Most times, even the little blue pills he takes can’t raise that flag. On any given night I find myself lying beside a bloated beached whale who snores like a freight train. My only reprieve is the nights when his insomnia kicks in and he prowls the halls like Marley’s ghost.”

Neal commiserated. “It must be tough being more ornamental than functional. It’s no wonder you feel lonely and frustrated, maybe even a bit isolated.”

“Ya think?” Vincent sneered. “But maybe it’s not like that for you, Jeffrey. You get to swan around New York City with all its alluring glamour instead of vegetating in the pastoral rustic boondocks. Newport loves its Gilded Age anachronisms, and I’m afraid that’s what I’m becoming being stuck here in a boring life.”

“Well, life is never boring with Peter,” Neal admits. “He keeps me on my toes and showers me with attention and the occasional gift. He actually gave me a very unique ankle bracelet after we hooked up. If our partnership seems a bit stale, sometimes we shake things up with some role playing. He likes to be the nasty cop opposite my very naughty criminal. Depending on the circumstances, it could even entail a bit of bondage with handcuffs." 

Now Vincent was curious. “How long have the two of you been together?”

Neal was smiling again. “We’ve been joined at the hip for three years, and, I’ll have to admit, it’s not all that bad. Peter may be a little rough around the edges, but we’ve come to share a special bond that ties us together.”

“Well, I’m still not sold on the concept of kismet and true love,” Vincent mutters as he shakes his head.

The two remained silent for a few minutes until Vincent raised his eyes to Neal. “You know, you’re a really good looking, sexy dude, and I’m beyond horny. So maybe we could hook up at least once before the weekend is over. It would be nice to actually feel some supple, smooth muscles and honest-to-god sweaty passion under the sheets.”

Neal grimaced and managed to look a bit contrite. “Sorry if I was giving off that vibe, my friend, but I make it a point to be monogamous when it concerns affairs of the heart. But I am flattered to be asked.”

Vincent looked disappointed. “I think you’ve got it bad for that ‘partner’ of yours. I hope staying with him is worth it.”

“I think, in the long run, it may get me exactly where I want to be,” Neal answered cryptically.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal loitered around the main floor of the house until Peter and Sir Reginald came back with their heads together talking equine bloodlines and stud fees. Neal/Jeffrey quickly sauntered up, practically batting his eyes at Peter. “I’ve missed, you, Sweetheart.”

Peter tried to remain stoic as he said gruffly, “Well, I’m back now and maybe it’s time we went up to our room.”

“Have fun,” Sir Reggie snickered as he beamed at his guests. “Remember, dinner is promptly at 8, so give yourselves a bit of time to come up for air.”

A uniformed valet materialized to lead Neal and Peter up the staircase and, during the tedious climb, Neal leaned in and whispered. “Peter, you absolutely reek of manure.”

“Well, Einstein, I was in a barn with horses, so it didn’t exactly smell like roses,” Peter hissed.

“Maybe I could get used to that earthy scent, perhaps even turned on a tad,” Neal yanked Peter’s chain as the eyelash fluttering returned.

“If horse shit is really an aphrodisiac for you, Buddy, then I think there’s something very wrong with you,” Peter snarked. “Maybe tone down the cloying romantic drivel for when we have an actual audience.”

“Peter, lighten up! If you insist on being a wet blanket, that’s absolutely no fun at all,” Neal pouted like a diva.

“Shut up, _Jeffrey!”_ an annoyed and very straight FBI agent commanded hotly.

At the top of the stairs, the valet veered left and opened a door with a flourish to a large suite with antique-looking furniture and expansive French doors that accessed an outdoor balcony. “Please don’t hesitate to inform me if there is anything more you require. Dinner tonight is business casual rather than black tie,” he intoned officiously before melting away on silent feet.

Neal suddenly noticed Peter’s deer in the headlights expression. “What’s got your knickers in a twist all of a sudden?” the con man asked in confusion.

“There’s only one bed,” Peter said flatly.

Neal grinned lasciviously. Payback was so tantalizing. “Oh, Peter, that’s just so precious. You’re acting like a blushing virgin.”

“I am _not_ sleeping with you, Neal, in any way, shape, or form,” Peter vowed vehemently.

“If it’s your first time, I could make it good for you,” Neal kept ragging mercilessly.

“Caffrey, I swear …” Peter couldn’t think of a way to end that threat.

“Relax, my uptight and bashful pseudo-lover. I don’t intend to jump your bones tonight. I have other things on my to-do list,” Neal informed Peter with a smug expression.

“Like what?” Peter was suddenly more interested in his confidential informant.

Neal grinned. “Well, while you were discussing animal husbandry, I was doing actual work. I think I may have discovered a possible hiding place where clever Reggie has his stash of goodies. It’s an old relic of a safe off the kitchen, and while I was getting acquainted with the elusive Vincent, he may have let something slip about the contents.”

“When you say ‘acquainted,’ what exactly does that mean?” Peter was almost afraid to ask.

Neal shrugged modestly. “Well, he may have found me very attractive and alluring, so he actually extended a very interesting invitation.”

Peter was glaring. “Are you trying to say he propositioned you for sex?”

“That’s a very crude way of putting it,” Neal scolded. “But don’t worry, Peter, I told him you were the only man for me. He was disappointed, but he’ll get over his infatuation in time.”

“Nobody ever really gets over you, Buddy,” Peter snapped. “The best that one can hope for is to produce enough protective antibodies to ward off your dangerous brand of charm.”

“Are you immune to me?” Neal asked as he cocked his head and gave Peter the full wattage of his “dangerous” blue eyes.

“Don’t even go there, Neal,” Peter warned. “Mess up and I’ll have no problem dragging your pretty ass back to Sing Sing in a heartbeat.”

“Yada, yada, yada,” Neal mumbled under his breath.

Peter glowered and then cleared his throat as he tried to maintain his composure. “Let’s get back to that safe downstairs. Are you going to sneak down tonight and try to crack it so we can see if any of the recently stolen paintings are inside?”

Neal nodded. “Yep, that’s the plan, but there’s one troubling thing that’s a potential snafu. Vincent told me the chubby little Englishman suffers from insomnia and walks the halls most nights. I can’t run the risk of bumping into him, so, we have to find another way.”

“Do you have a Plan B, Neal?” Peter looked hopeful.

“There’s always an alternative route to get where you want to go,” Neal replied mysteriously.


	3. Oops!

Dinner that night was quite a long affair consisting of five different courses with little crystal cups of sorbet served to cleanse the palate between each one. By the time the diners finished up in the library with cigars and brandy, it was after midnight. All through the earlier marathon meal, Neal was fawning and attentive to Peter, but it didn’t stop him from sliding little sidelong glances at Vincent across the table. At one point, Neal even let his foot meander into Vincent’s space, which only seemed to confuse the young man. Peter, of course, seemed oblivious to the little drama unfolding right under his nose, and Sir Reginald was too caught up boasting about his English relatives to pick up on it either.

When Peter and Neal finally returned to their room, they waited patiently for the bewitching hour. True to his word, Neal had a plan. He had noticed that there was a little door carved into the wall in the alcove that separated the two bedroom suites. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a rectangular box with a pulley system. Actually, it was an old fashion dumbwaiter used back in the day when spoiled members of elite society took their breakfasts in their rooms. The kitchen staff would load the tray down in the kitchen where there was another access panel, and then a maid or butler on the second floor would hoist it up. The simple but utile mechanism saved a lot of backbreaking fetching and carrying for an overworked staff.

Right now, Peter was taking note of the claustrophobic little box. “There’s just no way I can contort myself into that cramped space.”

“No, but I can,” Neal said proudly. “Your job is to slowly lower me down two floors until I reach the kitchen. Give me an hour to work my magic on the safe. When I crack it, I can take a gander at what’s inside, and if our paintings are there, I can take pictures with my phone as evidence. Then you’ll have to use your big, strong muscles to haul me back up.”

Peter sighed. “If the paintings are in there, that’s only half the problem solved. They aren’t sitting out in plain sight, so l can’t bust in here with a SWAT team because we don’t have probable cause for a search warrant.”

Neal shook his head and sighed. “Baby steps, Peter. Eventually, we’ll get the job done. I can’t believe you’re the one who’s always telling me that I’m impulsive and impatient. Just concentrate on one very important thing right now.”

”Which is?” Peter asked as he helped Neal crawl inside the wooden contraption in the wall.

“Don’t drop me!”

The ride started, inch by slow inch, with Peter straining to control the descent. Neal might look thin, but he was all toned muscle and, right now, Peter thought he weighed a ton. It was pitch black in Neal’s unusual elevator, but he felt the slow sliding in the two story tunnel. He figured he had cleared at least the first 12 feet and there was just one more story to go. Unfortunately, there was a glitch during his journey because, suddenly, he felt the car jerk to a halt. He had no way of knowing that Sir Reginald was into his meandering insomniac ways. Peter saw the Englishman’s lumbering shadow and quickly slammed the dumbwaiter door. That action caused the aged rope to snap and Neal felt himself falling through space like one of NASA’s rogue modules plummeting to earth.

“Peter, can’t sleep?” Sir Reginald asked solicitously when he spied his guest loitering by the wall.

“Well, that was a gargantuan meal, so I thought I’d take a little stroll to walk a bit of it off,” Peter said as an excuse for being out and about in a stranger’s home.

The old man nodded. “I often walk these halls because I have troubling sleeping. Would you care for a bit of sherry to pass the time?” he asked hopefully.

“Sure, why not!” Peter readily agreed.

“Do you think Jeffrey would like to join us?” Sir Reggie asked politely.

“I don’t think so,” Peter said slyly. “After the acrobatics this afternoon and the encore tonight, he’s down for the count.”

The Englishman actually giggled. “I salute your stamina, Sir.”

“Well, us older guys must hold our own when it comes to keeping the young studs happy.” Peter did so wish that Neal could have heard his words. It would have ushered in an interesting bit of banter. But right now, Peter had to admit that he was worried about Neal and the state of his body. Peter wasn’t sure how far he had fallen, but he didn’t get to investigate his partner’s status because that glass of sherry dragged on as Sir Reginald took it upon himself to acclimate his captive audience to the social strata in Newport and how to find a way into a very snotty clique.

Finally, by a quarter to four, after Peter’s repeated exaggerated yawns, old Reggie wound down and allowed his guest to make his getaway. Peter hurried upstairs intending to wait just long enough for his host to retire, then he was going down to the kitchen to rescue his possibly injured friend. He was nervously pacing when he heard a tapping on the French doors that led out onto the balcony. When he pulled the heavy drapes aside, Neal was glaring at him with his arms folded across his chest. He looked a bit disheveled but Peter didn’t notice any blood, bones sticking out, or a limp when he came inside the room. What he did notice was Neal’s stormy expression.

“You _dropped_ me!” was the first thing to come out of his CI’s mouth.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Peter held up his hands to ward off Neal’s anger.

Neal was shaking his head in disgust. “Lesson learned—I’ll never let you be my second story man again, Peter. You’re a clumsy, butterfingered oaf!”

“But you’re okay, right?” Peter asked meekly.

_“Okay_ is a relative term!” Neal huffed. “If I knew I’d have to fight my way through some very hostile shrubbery, then channel a mountain goat and climb up a drainpipe on a huge stone monstrosity to get to that stupid balcony, I would have brought a machete, pitons, and leather gloves. What I wouldn’t have brought was a rope. You want to know why? Because you’d forget to hold it and you’d let me fall!”

“I’m really sorry, Neal, I swear,” Peter said ardently. “I got waylaid by Sir Reggie and then the dry-rotted rope just …..well, it just snapped.”

Neal continued to glower for a few seconds before settling down. “Okay, I accept your apology and maybe it wasn’t all your fault.”

“Did you manage to crack the safe?” Peter asked timidly.

Neal gave him a disbelieving glare. “It took all of twenty minutes of listening to the little tumblers drop before I had that puppy open.”

“And …” Peter asked anxiously.

Neal then tossed his cell at Peter. “It’s all there on my phone, the Titian, the Rembrandt, and the Reubens all curled up in little art tubes waiting to be framed after Reggie thinks the heat has died down. Now I’m going into the bathroom to nurse my wounds and take a hot shower. Meanwhile, you can start picking all the nasty little pyracantha thorns out of my clothes,” he added as he stripped down and flung his shirt and pants at Peter’s head.

~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, so they had the first part of the problem sorted out, but Peter didn’t know how Neal planned to move on to the next phase of making an actual arrest. The con man was still holding a grudge, it seemed, and refusing to share his ideas. “I want it to be a surprise, Peter. Don’t you like surprises?” Neal taunted.

“Not when they’re coming from you,” Peter said in dread.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Neal replied smugly.

They still had all of Sunday to get through in this charade, so Peter cowboyed up during a late breakfast. Then, at his host’s urging, he took a walk around the grounds with him, Vincent, and Neal. “How about a sedate game of croquet,” Sir Reginald suggested when they came abreast of a lawn with a series of little colored poles and arched white wire wickets.

“Count me out,” Vincent said in disgust. “I’m going for a swim.”

“I’d join you but I didn’t bring a suit,” Neal said wistfully.

Vincent eyed Neal carefully before saying, “I could lend you one of mine.”

“Great!” Neal said enthusiastically.

Of course, Vincent didn’t actually own any swim trunks. Instead, he handed Neal a tiny little Speedo that was almost obscene. “I might as well be buck naked in this little thong bikini,” Neal said as he held up barely more than a string.

“You could skinny dip, if you want,” Vincent said with a leer.

“Maybe I should pretend to have at least a modicum of modesty,” Neal smiled back.

Eventually, both young men were in the water swimming lazily back and forth in the Olympic-sized pool. When they had expended their energy, they sat, side by side, on the cement apron dangling their legs in the warm water. Vincent looked at Neal speculatively before speaking. “You were flirting with me last night.”

“Perhaps I was just enjoying the view,” Neal teased.

“I thought you never cheat,” Vincent insisted.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to look, so that’s not really cheating,” Neal claimed.

Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet what does hurt are those colorful bruises on your shoulder, lower back, and hip,” he challenged.

Neal looked embarrassed. “This little swimming getup doesn’t leave much to the imagination.” 

“Those ugly contusions look fresh, so did that Rhymes guy do that to you last night?” Vincent pushed.

“I got them when I fell,” Neal answered honestly.

“Sure you did,” Vincent mocked.

Neal shrugged. “Look, Peter can be a little heavy handed when he feels insecure. He saw the flirting and thought he needed to teach me a life lesson.”

“Has he done this sort of thing before?” Vincent wanted to know.

“Maybe,” Neal waffled as he lowered his eyes.

“How can you think you love somebody who physically abuses you, Jeffrey? Get your head on straight. You’re beautiful and there are other fish out there in the sea who would welcome you with open arms and not use you as a punching bag,” Vincent said firmly.

“I stay for the same reason you stay, even though you hate it,” Neal said softly. “Financially, neither one of us wants to go it alone. If we weren’t so strapped for money, we could leave together and never look back.”

Vincent just shook his head sadly and the two men sat in uncomfortable silence until Neal thought it was time to bait the hook. “When Peter and I get back to New York, I’m going to do something about my situation. I happen to know he has a safe in his study, and I also know where he keeps the key. I’m going to see if there’s enough cash in there that will enable me to get away from him.”

Vincent was eyeing Neal thoughtfully, and it was questionable if he was connecting the dots. Neal tried to nudge him in the right direction. “You said that safe in Sir Reginald’s pantry had some valuable stuff in it. Maybe you could do the same thing.”

“Yeah, there’s that safe but it only has tons of tarnished old silver that nobody would want these days,” the other man answered.

Neal was suddenly animated. “Yeah, but you also said there are some paintings, too. If he locks them up, they’re probably very valuable and a lot easier to carry. Before I started hanging out with Peter, a friend of mine had sticky fingers and he used a fence to sell all kinds of hot items. That dude could probably move paintings without breaking a sweat. I guess the only problem is for you to get into the locked vault.”

Neal hadn’t yet figured out that little hiccup, but Vincent provided an immediate solution. “That’s easy. Reginald is getting a bit forgetful in his dotage, so he wrote the combination down on a little piece of paper that he keeps in the spice cabinet in the kitchen. He files it under “C” for combination. How innovatively inspirational is that?” Vincent mocked.

Neal felt like hitting his head against a wall. He had spent almost a half hour last night fiddling and cajoling a cantankerous old safe when the keys to the kingdom were nestled just a few feet away between cinnamon and coriander.

“So, are you in?” Neal asked eagerly.

“If I can get the goods, I’m in,” Vincent vowed.

Neal allowed himself to look elated and hopeful. “Okay, before I leave today, I’ll slip you my phone number. If you find some old oil paintings and can smuggle them out of the house in the next day or two, I can you meet you in Manhattan. Actually, scrap that. I’ll give you the address of that fence’s place in Brooklyn. We can meet up there and make plans for a new life.”

“Sounds like an adventure,” Vincent replied giving Neal a smile— the first and only one that Neal had seen on his face since he and Peter had arrived. It actually made Neal feel really bad about using the trusting guy for his own ends.


	4. My Way Or The Highway

Peter badgered Neal during the entire drive back to New York. All Neal would admit was that he had threaded the needle and time would tell if someone decided to sew the case up for them. He declined to add any details. Peter would just have to suck it up and be patient.

One day, then two passed with Peter sending never-ending glowers in Neal’s direction at the office. Neal just rewarded him with a beatific Cheshire Cat smile. Finally, on Wednesday, Vincent made contact. “I’ve got those paintings, Jeffrey,” he claimed. “They look old and drab and the paint’s actually a bit crackled with age. Do you really think anybody wants this kind of antique crap in today’s market?”

“Just send me some photos and I’ll run it by my fence,” Neal whispered. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something one way or the other.”

Within seconds, Neal’s cell chimed and images of old masterpieces flooded his phone. Neal smiled and then sauntered up to Peter’s office. “You think these may be worth something?” he asked innocently as he showed Peter the jpegs. “I just happen to know a certain someone who is ready to peddle them.”

“Okay, Buddy, now it’s time for you to fill me in!” Peter growled as he nailed Neal with a laser stare.

So, Neal explained how he had manipulated a guileless man. “You can initially arrest Vincent for being in possession of stolen goods, actually right in your own house, Peter. I took the liberty of giving him your address. But you have to promise to drop all charges against him when he tells you where he got them. He had no idea they were valuable or how Sir Reginald had gotten them. He’s really innocent in all of this.”

“He’ll have to testify in court,” Peter was adamant.

“If it even gets to court,” Neal reminded him. “Old crafty Reggie might claim immunity because he’s a kind of English diplomat.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Peter vowed. “The crimes were committed at his behest on American soil, so we may be able to shut down his loopholes. I’ll let the Federal legal eagles duke it out in court.”

“But you won’t prosecute Vincent,” Neal insisted. “If you won’t give me your word on that, then I’ll tell him the deal is off and you’ll never get those painting back where they belong.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the FBI agent and you work for me,” Peter said with his hands on his hips. “You don’t get to call the shots. I do!”

Neal wasn’t intimidated. “Do I have your promise, Peter? A yes or no answer will suffice.”

Peter snorted. “Sometimes, I really don’t know why I keep you around, kiddo. You can be a real pain in the ass!”

Neal rewarded Peter with a shit-eating grin. “You keep me around because I’m pretty, witty, charming, and I get the job done. And just maybe because you like having a fawning hottie hanging on your arm. Enough said? Now, back to that promise.”

“Fine! I promise,” Peter roared. “Now, set this thing in motion.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Everything went like clockwork. Vincent showed up on Peter Burke’s doorstep ringing the bell like an Avon lady. He was temporarily taken into custody while the art authenticators did their thing with the goodies he brought. With that little chore out of the way, Peter approached the bewildered man in an FBI interrogation room and offered him a sweetheart deal—a lifeline which he grabbed onto like a drowning man on the Titanic. “You aren’t what you pretended to be,” he said to Peter unnecessarily. “You aren’t some rich dude. Was everything a lie, even Jeffrey?”

At that moment, Peter began to feel a pang of sympathy for this clueless man. “Jeffrey’s real name is Neal, Vincent. And he is my partner, just not in the sense that you assumed.”

“Can I talk to him?” a suddenly sad individual begged.

“Let me see if he’s available,” Peter said softly.

Of course, Neal was standing right outside watching the interrogation. “You want to talk to him?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, I think I owe it to him,” Neal said almost sadly. “Just make sure the cameras and the recording devices are turned off, Peter, because this is very personal and it doesn’t have anything to do with stolen artwork.”

“I get it, Neal,” Peter nodded as he did as Neal asked before leaving.

Neal entered the little room and took a seat across from Vincent. “Sorry to be so deceptive,” he began, “but I had a job to do and sometimes good people get hurt in the crossfire. I’m pretty bummed right now that you were collateral damage in the FBI’s war.”

“So, you’re a Federal Agent,” Vincent mumbled. “I never saw that coming when they told me because it just didn’t seem to ring true.”

“That’s because it isn’t true,” Neal grimaced. “I’m not an FBI agent. I’m just their pawn and indentured to them in the short term. Remember that ankle bracelet I told you about, well here’s what it looks like,” he added as he hitched up his pant leg and exposed the black neoprene circle and it’s little green light.

“How long?” Vincent asked.

“It’s been three years and counting, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel,” Neal answered truthfully. “It won’t be forever, and one day I’ll be free to get on with my life.”

“No, I mean how long do you have left because I could wait for you,” Vincent claimed ardently.

Neal smiled. “Don’t wait to start living again, Vincent. Dive into it now. I have a very close friend who could help you find a place in the city and front you some money to get settled and find a job—a real job that affords you dignity and self-satisfaction. You just have to take stock of your strengths and make the most of them.”

Vincent didn’t look convinced. “I’m not sure I’m ready to take on that responsibility. Maybe I’ll always want to be the one taken care of by somebody else.”

“Then find the right person and go for it,” Neal smiled as he rose from his seat. “I’ll keep sending you positive thoughts. Happy hunting.”

Later that night, Neal was kicked back in his loft with Mozzie. He passed his friend a piece of paper with a phone number and a name. “Every now and then, Moz, check on this guy just to see how he’s doing and let me know.”

“Does he fall into the category of a pet project or a charitable cause?” Moz asked knowingly.

Neal shrugged. “I guess you could say that right now he’s a work in progress.”


End file.
